He hadn’t seen anyone in the greenhouse. He straightened over the pots of basil he’d been examining. The Friday rush could be a skirmish, depending upon the season and what fresh produce people were stampeding after. The staff understood his disappearance from two o’clock to three o’clock every Friday was no accident. The scents and quiet in the herb greenhouse were particularly calming, and his department and floor managers could handle business in his absence. They’d been with him for years. He liked to think they were family at Stafford’s, a family who’d kept him going when his own home life unraveled. Turning toward the sound, he took a few quiet steps on the packed dirt, and looked through the taller plants lining the middle bench. In the sunlight coming through the glass, Diane Avery curved over a plant. Her eyes were closed, her eyelashes curling against cheeks sporting a faint blush, her features in blissful repose. His pulse quickened. He stared, feeling like a voyeur, but unable to pull away his gaze.
